


Adventures in Babysitting

by archipelago



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Babysitting, I really don't know, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock watches Twilight with Mrs. Hudson's granddaughter, Twilock, but it's all in good fun, mild Twilight bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:03:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archipelago/pseuds/archipelago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Hudson needs a last minute babysitter.  Conveniently, her favourite tenant has recently returned from the dead.</p><p>Sherlock thinks this is quite possibly the worst thing that has ever happened to him, and one time he jumped off a roof.</p><p> </p><p>Featuring: a Post-Reichenbach, John-less Sherlock dealing with a twelve year old and watching Twilight.  I really have no excuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Sherlock.

Sherlock is sure that he is about to expire of boredom when he hears Mrs. Hudson's footsteps coming up the stairs. He finds himself torn: is this an improvement or a decided downturn of events? True, she might make him a cuppa, but she also might want to talk to him, and he doesn't think he is capable of being polite to anyone right now, not even his beloved landlady.

When he hears a second set of steps, his heart jumps a little in his chest. Could it be...? But no, this person is lighter, smaller, quicker. A young person, definitely, and whoever they are, they seem to be bounding after Mrs. Hudson and—

Oh no. No. Sherlock glances about the living room, looking for a hiding place, just as Mrs. Hudson lets herself in, towing behind her a small girl holding a backpack.

“Hoo hoo, Sherlock!” she calls, smiling when she spots him looking petrified in the corner of the room. “I've brought someone for you to meet!”

Sherlock shakes his head and tries to mold himself into the wall. “I won't do it, Mrs. Hudson. You can't make me!”

Mrs. Hudson drags the child forward and pushes her into the apartment. “This is my granddaughter, Amanda.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, before he can stop himself, “and she is twelve years old, the product of your daughter and her husband, born and raised in Florida. She has never been to London before—you always go to your children, not the other way around. She is good at sport, hates maths, and is, in general, entirely average. _Now please get her away from me_.”

“How did he know all that?” Amanda asks, staring wide-eyed at the strange gentleman trying to blend in with the wallpaper.

Mrs. Hudson smiles at the girl and pats her head. “Sherlock's a genius.”

“Well, it was pretty rude. I'm not that bad at math.” She sniffs and hikes the backpack over her shoulder.

Sherlock watches the exchange, shifting his eyes between the two women before he can't take it anymore. “Mrs. Hudson, I will not babysit for you. It is clearly the worst idea that you have ever had, and you were once married to a serial killer.”

Amanda gasps. “We don't talk about Grandpa!”

“And with very good reason.” Sherlock replies.

“Please, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson gives him her saddest face, and even though he knows it's nothing but manipulation, his insides twist a bit. “My sister's fallen, and she's been taken to hospital.”

Although he shakes his head, Sherlock also comes away from the wall. The old woman is winning, and they both know it. “Can't you bring her with you?”

“You'd have me bring a twelve year old to hospital to do nothing but sit around and wait for hours?”

“Yes.”

Anyone else would have been offended, but Mrs. Hudson just chuckles lightly and stares at him, beseeching. “Sherlock...”

He sighs heavily, grimaces, stomps his foot, and then shrugs. “Fine. But just this once!” He turns to point at the girl. “And don't you dare expect to have a bit of fun.”

Amanda rolls her eyes. “Don't worry. Figured that one out on my own.”

Sherlock looks taken aback and is about to ask the girl about her deduction when Mrs. Hudson pipes up again. “If you don't mind her borrowing your telly, I bought her some DVDs to keep her entertained.”

Swinging her bag to the front, Amanda rummages through it and pulls out a box set. She grins at Sherlock as she brandishes it. “Grandma gave me all the _Twilight_ movies!”

“What's _Twilight_?” Sherlock asks before he cant think better of it.

“Are you joking?” Amanda shakes the box in front of his face as if that is supposed to provide any sort of clarification. “It's _Twilight_! _Twilight_! The most important, most romantic, most wonderful book series that has ever been written, ever! And these are the movies based on the books!”

“Oh, _God_.” Sherlock says, realizing his error. He looks up, intending to order Mrs. Hudson to take her progeny with her, but the old woman slipped out while he wasn't looking. He moves to the window, and sure enough, she emerges onto the street below, waving cheerily before heading into a waiting cab.

He glares at his landlady as she is driven away and vows to play the violin at odd hours for at least two weeks straight. With a final huff, he turns around to find that the girl has thrown her bag onto the sofa and is now poking at his DVD player, inserting a disc.

“What are you doing?” he asks, frowning.

She motions at the device in front of her. “Trying to get your dumb player to work.”

He sweeps toward her, shooing the girl aside as he plucks the DVDs from her hands. “You'll break it. Just let me do it for you.”

The girl backs away, and turns to settle herself on the couch. She puts her backpack on the ground in front of her and swings her legs as she watches Sherlock fiddle with the telly. “Is your name really Sherlock?”

Sherlock sighs deeply. This is possibly be the worst thing that has ever happened to him, and one time he jumped off a roof. “Yes.”

“That's a really weird name.”

“I don't recall asking your opinion.” He inserts the first DVD into the player and switches on the telly, backing away so she can see the picture. He places the box set next to the girl, and then heads toward the kitchen to see if he can make room in the fridge for body parts. Since his return, he has tried to keep the kitchen as limbless as possible for Mrs. Hudson; the woman had cried— _cried_ —when she'd first seen him, and he still feels guilty every time he remembers her distraught expression. Now, however, her babysitting ploy has effectively cured him of that particular affliction, and he feels the sudden need to fill the refrigerator with as many heads as possible.

At least two. Three, if Molly is amenable.

The previews begin, but Amanda does not how to use the remote to skip them. She turns to watch Sherlock clean out the fridge in favor of the telly. “Did you really die once?”

“As I am standing in the kitchen, I think it is easy enough to see that I did not.”

A moment later, the previews end and the menu pops up. “How do I make it play?”

Sherlock slams the refrigerator door shut. “For God's sake!”

He stomps back into the main room, picks up the remote, and hits the 'play' button. The girl watches him with big eyes as he throws the remote down on the couch. It gives a satisfying bounce before tumbling to the floor. “Aren't you going to watch the movie?”

“Why would I do a thing like that?” 

“It's _Twilight_.” The girl motions to the screen. “You know, Edward Cullen and Bella Swan? And Jacob, of course. And Renesmee!”

“Good God, what is a 'Renesmee?'” Sherlock shudders, shakes his head. “Actually, no. Don't answer that. 

Amanda rolls her eyes. “Renesmee is a baby! Jacob falls in love with her.”

Well, that was an interesting plot twist. Teenagers were allowed to read this? “Paedophilia is acceptable in _Twilight_?”

“Jacob is not a pedophile!” She screeches. He can hear the incorrect spelling. “He watches over her until she grows up. He loves her.”

Sherlock gives four seconds of thought to this plot point before he realizes what he is doing. Horror rises up inside him, and his mouth twists into an ugly frown. “Right. I am going to clean out the refrigerator.”

He walks to the kitchen and flings open the door to the fridge. He hasn't much in the way of food (of course he hasn't, he never used to do the shopping Before and now—well, best not to think about that), but he doubts any amount of organization will make room for three heads. It is probably a good thing; Molly came under some intense scrutiny when her part in his scheme was revealed. Sherlock doesn't want to cause her any more inconvenience than he already has.

Not that he'll ever tell her that. Best to keep her expectations of him low.

As he shoves the milk into the back corner, Sherlock hears the sound of sneakers on linoleum. He stands and looks down at Mrs. Hudson's granddaughter, glaring.

“What do you want?”

She pouts. “I don't want to watch the movie alone. Grandma told me you'd play with me.”

“And _I_ told you not to expect to have any fun.” Sherlock turns back to the fridge, having every intention of ignoring the girl, when he catches a glimpse of her face out of the corner of his eye. Amanda gives him her biggest, saddest eyes; her lower lip juts forward, and her shoulders slump.

“ _Pleeease_?” She asks, beseeching.

 _I'm going soft_ , Sherlock thinks. _This never would have got to me Before._

He groans. The fridge is practically empty, anyway. “Fine.”

Amanda instantly brightens. A wide smile pastes its way across her face as she bounds from the room, ponytail bouncing against her back. She cuddles up into the corner of the couch and tosses the remote at Sherlock as he enters the room behind her. He takes a seat in his usual chair and presses play.

It is an action he regrets almost immediately.

For the next ninety minutes, he is subjected to the worst film he's ever seen—and that includes every Bond movie John ever forced him to watch. Sherlock, being Sherlock, cannot find it within himself to hold his tongue, and he lambasts everything from the stiff acting to the improbable story.

“I thought you said there was no paedophilia in this film.” He complains.

“There isn't! Where is there pedophilia?”

She is still spelling it wrong, he just knows it. “There! Right there, on screen! She is a minor, and he is over one hundred years old!”

Amanda drops her head into her hands, only letting go to chuck the Union Jack pillow at him. “He is not one hundred years old! He's seventeen! He's just been that way for awhile.”

“'For awhile.'” Sherlock scoffs. “His age is not determined by how old he was when he died, but by how many trips he has taken around the sun(1). Ergo, he is a centenarian. You would not find this relationship quite so romantic if he looked as old as he was.”

Try as she might, Amanda cannot refute that. She resorts to lesser debate tactics and sticks out her tongue at him. “Shut up!”

It is probably a bit not good to feel so victorious about winning a vampire-based argument with a twelve year old girl, Sherlock thinks (John would be able to confirm this, if John were here, but he is not, and that doesn't bother Sherlock, not at all). Having been ordered into silence, he feels as though he is relieved of his duty to watch the film. He stands and starts to leave the room, when Amanda reaches out and catches the sleeve of his suit jacket.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

He attempts to tug his arm away, but the girl's grip is surprisingly strong. He frowns. “I have suffered through enough of this. I am going to my room.”

For a moment, Amanda's brow furrows and her lips form a hard line, and Sherlock is sure she is going to go into a mighty strop. Her stormy expression clears quite suddenly, however, and she says, “Fine, then. I'll go, too.” She pauses the DVD and stands, stretching. “What are we going to do? Grandma told me you have Clue. We could play that, I guess.”

“ _Do_. Clue _do_. And if those are my only two options, I'd rather watch the movie.” He hesitates and then sits back down in his chair, hating that he has just been manipulated by a preteen. “You're a devious little thing, aren't you?”

The girl smirks and pats the empty seat on the other side of the couch. With a shrug, he joins her. Her grin nearly breaks her face in two.

“Maybe a bit.” She admits. She hits play and the movie resumes.

Sherlock schools his expression into something neutral and fights against the amusement threatening to steal over his face. “Honestly,” he says, “it makes you slightly more interesting than I initially hypothesized.”

Amanda says nothing. They watch the last half hour of the film, and Sherlock only makes four rude comments and seven sarcastic noises. It is a vast improvement in his behavior.


	2. Chapter 2

“Now, was that so bad?” Amanda asks as the credits begin to roll.

“Yes.”

The girl sticks out her tongue. “Liar.”

He isn't lying. Sherlock opens his mouth to tell her as much when she sidles off the couch and grabs her box set, moving to sit cross-legged in front of the DVD player. She fiddles with the buttons until the first disc pops out; she then inserts the next film.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, craning his neck. He scowls when a preview pops up on the screen. More teenagers in supernatural romances. It makes him feel old. “What gave you the impression that we were going to watch another one of these God-awful films?”

Amanda rolls up onto her knees, facing her babysitter. “Grandma bought them specifically so I wouldn't be bored here all day. I mean, it's not like I can take them home. They won't work in Florida, so I have to enjoy them while I can!”

“Define 'enjoy.'”

Getting to her feet, Amanda hops back into her place on the couch. “Whatever. You're going to love this one. You will never guess what Edward does.”

With a sigh, Sherlock brings his feet up onto the couch. “Oh, how will I ever manage the suspense?”

The girl pinches him and hits play.

The film begins with more of the same boring plot line. The idiot girl and her vampire beau are happily in love—until they aren't. As Edward abandons his ex-girlfriend in a forest for her own safety, Sherlock feels something uncomfortable settle in his stomach.

Even Amanda notices. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” He replies, his tone short. “Or as fine as I can be when forced to watch this garbage.”

Sherlock is a rational man. He knows that John did not lay in a forest for hours on end after he left, so distraught that he could not even manage the strength to move. John did not sit in his room and listen to terrible indie music, or write emails to an address that was no longer active. His life did not stop.

And thank goodness for that. If he had done any of those things, Sherlock would now feel obliged to hate him on principle.

No, John grieved for an appropriate amount of time, moved out of Baker Street, and got on with his life. From what Sherlock can tell, by the time he'd returned, John had been perfectly happy.

And then he'd come back, and John has been less happy and more...violent. He'd punched Sherlock in the face upon seeing him again, and then when the detective had attempted to explain, he'd followed it up with a punch to the stomach.

Since that day, John has made every effort to avoid him.

Not that Sherlock cares, of course. In death, he managed to save three people and solve the most brilliant case of his career. Moriarty is dead and the empire he left behind is dust. Sherlock, on the other hand, still has Mrs. Hudson, who dotes on him as if he never left and makes him tea even as she insists that she is not his housekeeper. Lestrade has promised that as soon as Sherlock is cleared by the higher ups, he can start going to crime scenes again. Mycroft expedited his paperwork so that he is once again officially alive, and Molly pops by every few days with terrible cakes that she (obviously) bakes herself. 

Every person he knows except for one has forgiven him, and Sherlock figures that is a fairly decent average. He could hardly have expected better. Still. It does hurt—no, not hurt, hurt is too strong a word, sting maybe—that the one person who refuses to acknowledge his renewed existence is the same one he was most anxious to see. 

But Sherlock can hardly complain. His life is full. Ish. Sometimes. Well, it's a bit boring, actually, but—

It'll be better once the cases start and the reporters stop and everything ceases to be so damn dull.

Amanda gasps, and Sherlock refocuses on the television. The bland heroine seems to have thrown herself off a cliff.

“Finally,” he says. He frowns when a ghostly version of her vampire boyfriend caresses her beneath the waves. “Is she dead now? Excellent.”

“You are...” the girl stares at him, mouth agape. “I am just going to ignore you.”

Bella is saved by a meaty, bare-chested boy. Sherlock sighs. “Well, in that case, I will—“

“No.”

He stays put and glares mightily at the child beside him. How does she keep doing that?

–

“Does that one even own a shirt?”

“If you had abs like that, you wouldn't own a shirt, either.”

Sherlock is fairly certain that is an inaccurate statement.

–

“I don't understand. Why don't they just call him?”

“Haven't you been listening? He wouldn't believe them! If anyone contacts Edward, he'll think they're lying and just try to kill himself quicker!”

“Has anyone thought to put her on the telephone, then? Unless one of their little talents is the ability to exactly mimic another person's voice, I should think--”

“But he crushed his phone!”

“Is he not with other vampires? Am I to assume he is the only undead being in all of Italy that has a mobile?”

“....shut up, Sherlock.”  
–

“So he gets to come back, just like that?”  Sherlock scoffs.  “That is utterly unrealistic.”

Amanda rolls her eyes.  “It’s about vampires.  What did you expect?”

“I guess a compelling plot was too much to hope for.”

“What do you mean?  She loves him so much that she never moved on, even though Jacob is super nice and really hot.  And now Edward is coming back so they can be together again.  It’s so romantic!”  The girl clasps a pillow to her chest and heaves a sigh.  “Bella is so lucky.”

With a snort, Sherlock replies, “She was luckiest when he tried to leave her.  As it is, if this were based in any sort of fact about human relations, she would never have forgiven him.”

Amanda’s mouth opens and shuts several times.  “I don’t understand you.  Are you allergic to romance?”

“If only I were so fortunate,” the detective mutters, motioning to the figures on the telly.  “It's quite simple: she was in danger because of him, and for some reason,despite the fact that she is a vacuous hole of a human being, Edward cared.  Therefore, he tried to do what he thought was right and save her by leaving her alone.  What our dear hero failed to consider, however, was that most people don't appreciate it when you take their choices from them.  If she were any sort of sane or normal person, she would hate him."

“That is not how a person would react!” Amanda informs him, crossing her arms in front of her.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, “it is.”

From behind them, a third voice chimes in:

"'Vacuous hole of a human being?'  A little harsh, Sherlock."

Sherlock turns and looks over the back of the couch at John, who hovers in the doorway.  They stare at each other for a long moment, and then Amanda breaks the silence and asks, "Who are you?"

Both men ignore her.

"I was referring to the insipid girl in the film.  It wasn't a metaphor, I assure you."

John almost smiles.  "Is that so?"

"Oh, it's so. He hasn't shut up about how much he hates Bella since the beginning of the first movie.  Seriously.  It's really annoying."  Amanda supplies, grabbing the remote and rewinding back to the beginning of the scene.  She pauses the DVD.  "I'm Amanda Douglas, by the way."

John walks to the couch and extends his hand to the girl.  She grins at him as they shake.  "I'm John Watson.  I'm a friend of your grandmother."

"Why are you here?" blurts Sherlock.  He stares at John and does not care that he is being obvious.  It has been three months, one week, five days, six hours, and twelve minutes since they were last in the same room, and in that time John has not contacted him once.  He has ignored every one of Sherlock's texts about crimes he's read in the paper and the distinct lack of milk in 221B and has rebuffed the attempts of both Mycroft (obvious) and Lestrade (surprising) when they tried to convince him to give Sherlock a chance to explain.

Now, however, the man shrugs as if he has just decided to pop by.  "Mrs. Hudson called and asked me to make sure you didn't murder her granddaughter."  He waggles his eyesbrows at Amanda, and she giggles.  "Or vice versa."

Amanda scoots away from the arm and moves to the middle of the couch.  It is not a large sofa, and she nearly tucks herself into Sherlock's side, choosing to ignore his look of discomfort.  "Well, come on!  This one is nearly done, and then we're going to watch Eclipse!"

"No, we're not." Sherlock says.

Her tiny elbow digs sharply into the detective's ribs, and he winces.  "Yes, we are."

John hesitates, eyes tracking back to the door.  Sherlock can read his entire day in his posture, his clothing, his unkempt hair: he was having a quiet day at home, no work, no visitors.  He had to get properly dressed to come over--explains why his trousers and shirt still have their clean lines.  He has not yet had a chance to rumple them.  

He will leave, Sherlock thinks.  He will leave and call Mrs. Hudson to let her know that no one has been murdered in the flat, and then I will never see him again.

Instead, John sits next to Amanda and picks up the remote to hit play.  Onscreen, Bella pleads for her vampire boyfriend's life.  Sherlock fights back a smile as he stares at the telly; John can still surprise him, and that is wonderful.

To his right, Amanda chatters happily, explaining all the pertinent plot points so that John can catch up.

“—and then she cut her hand and then all the vampires got hungry and then Edward was like, 'we can't be together because I'm dangerous or whatever,' and then he left and she was, like, so sad, John, oh my gosh—“

“Have she been like this the entire time?” John asks, staring down as she motors her way through the story.

Sherlock huffs out a long-suffering sigh. “You've no idea.”

After a rambling monologue that takes another five minutes (despite the fact that, to Sherlock's knowledge, nothing actually happens in these films), they restart the movie and watch until the end. Before either adult can suggest a different title, Amanda is out of her seat and sliding in the next DVD. From across the room, the girl assures them that they're both bound to like this one as it is her absolute favorite.

On the couch, John fidgets in her seat. Sherlock picks at the leg of his trousers.

“It's...” Sherlock stops, frowns, “it's good to see you, John.”

John nods. “Yeah. You, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took awhile. I've had about half of this written since I posted the first chapter, but I rather lost steam on where I wanted it to go. Have nothing written of the third (and final) chapter, but I'm sure I'll manage it quick enough.
> 
> No beta, so please let me know if you notice any mistakes.
> 
> That goes double if you're familiar with the films. I have only seen each of them once, so I can't remember all the details.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) I am fairly certain that I stole that phrase (said in regard to Bella and Edward's relationship) from a Vlogbrothers video. Thanks, John Green.
> 
> There will be at least one more part, possibly two. Why? Because the thought of Sherlock watching _Twilight_ is something that greatly amuses me, that's why.
> 
> Do not have a beta. Please let me know if you see any mistakes so that I may correct them.


End file.
